


addendum

by AtmaphAsrchi



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Mental Health Issues, Stabbing, Strangulation, really prose-y and pretentious and douchey and I've been sitting on it forever, short writings strung together in the very early morning, warnings for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:46:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtmaphAsrchi/pseuds/AtmaphAsrchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s after the fourth time you stab a sharp something into his chest, after the second you try strangling that long, pale neck, after the last time you try ignoring everything about him, that you realize he’s not going to bleed ichor for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	addendum

His breathing stalls and air the color of ink in dizzy curling fumes leaks out of his mouth. Digits, pressing heavily into his larynx and digging drenched red crescents. Hair coarse and black, skin cold and atmosphere heavy; everything about him screams and wails and kicks and flails and whispers, hoarsely, “No longer here.”

He is ubiquitous, he is the ocean, he is the air. He is the shadows that slink and slide between the cracks in the pavement; the harsh words that scrape over your eardrums in great volume, the ones that send red blustering into your vision. He’s named nothing but became everything, swallowing stars that fell into his domain. Swallowing the light. Swallowing the dark. Devouring the days and time, and crooning, “Time hasn’t been kind, but there’s no such thing anyway.”

You hate him. You hate his being. You hate his colors and his arrogance and his ability to keep his damn voice even when you’re breaking sanity with him. Ivory skin and eyes that mimic dead sunken craters, the very ones that bore holes into the back of your neck when you walk away. You know he’s looking at your neck. He always does.

It’s after the fourth time you stab a sharp something into his chest, after the second you try strangling that long, pale neck, after the last time you try ignoring everything about him, that you realize he’s not going to bleed ichor for you. He lets the ink that runs through his veins swirl into the air and play with your vision, but he is not going to bleed ichor for you. Even if he is a god. Even if he isn’t. You never should have suspected that he would.


End file.
